


Standard Rules for a Flatshare

by redscudery



Series: Scudery's Saturday Night Fic Fest [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Bisexual John, Comeplay, First Time, Inappropriate Erections, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Masturbation, Stakeout, Trapped In A Closet, Voyeurism, but only in absentia again sorry Anarfea, except he's a stealth bisexual shhh, finely tuned wank radar, less sad wanking, of a sort, sad wanking, that should really be a tag, well an attic studio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 21:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6256930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes’ secret and stealthy masturbation is no match for John Watson’s finely tuned wank radar...especially on a stakeout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standard Rules for a Flatshare

**Author's Note:**

> For [jaune_chat's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune_Chat/pseuds/Jaune_Chat) prompt, 'Never seen, often imagined.' Thanks to [jinglebell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/pseuds/jinglebell) for the supervision.
> 
> Also, for general purposes, you might want to know that a Paris-Brest is a [pastry](http://www.roadtopastry.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/Recipe-Paris-Brest-02.jpg)

Sherlock Holmes gets erections just like everyone else.   
Well, perhaps not. Sherlock Holmes gets erections like he gets ideas: fast, intense, and, usually, fleeting.   
Fleeting if he can lay hands on himself, that is. If he can’t, well, an erection is just as persistent as some of his ideas. That’s what happens when you try and suppress the urges of a healthy body.  
So he wanks. Usually quickly, but not always. He’s relatively good at enjoying himself once he makes his mind up to it, and an orgasm is nearly as good as one of Mrs. Hudson’s mince pies when he’s in the mood.   
His favourite place if he’s going to enjoy a wank is sprawled on the couch in his living room. He likes to push the waistband of his pyjama trousers down and let it hold his ballocks snugly. He teases himself, too, with the lube he’s got stashed under the cushion, until he’s trembling, and then tries to ride the sensation as long as he can. He’s gotten very good at visualizing the spread of oxytocin and endorphins through his body, which reduces the frequency of the erections. He’s not interested enough to do a scientific study, though.

Then John Watson moves in, and Sherlock can’t do that anymore. Or rather, he can, but he finds that the couch smells like John a little, now, and the wank sessions are nearly twice as frequent as before--counterproductive.  
Also, John has told him to stop.  
“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock. There’s semen on the arm of the couch again.”  
“It’s a perfectly natural habit, John. I don’t know why you’re so squeamish.”  
“The word isn’t ‘squeamish’, Sherlock, it’s ‘hygienic’. Cut it the hell out.”  
Sherlock stalks away from that particular conversation without another word, but he has to, because of his nearly painful erection. He shuts himself into his room, and “Cut it the hell out” echoes in his ears as he comes.   
When he emerges, John asks him if he’s washed his hands. Sherlock looks at him.   
“I mean, you were just about to hand me that cup of tea.”  
“This isn’t about my hands.” Sherlock watches John’s eyes flick up, then back to him, “This is about my masturbatory habits.”  
“Did you just say ‘masturbatory hab--oh God, you did. We are not having this conversation, Sherlock.”  
“Fine. We’re not. You brought it up.”  
“I only asked if you’d washed your hands.”  
“You presumed I had been masturbating--correctly, as it happens, which is surprising--and, given your distaste for the semen of others--less surprising, given your vociferous heterosexuality--it was a simple deduction.”  
John’s cheek twitches.  
“No bodily fluids on shared household items. It’s a pretty standard rule for a flat share, Sherlock. And I didn’t presume. I was a soldier. I deduced.”  
“Interesting. Will you share your techniques? I find I’m not quite as up on the post-coital markers as I might be.”  
“I will not. Maybe you’ll be a little less bloody smug if you know you don’t know everything.”  
“Very well. Hand me those ears, then.”  
“Wash your hands first.”  
“Fine.”  
John walks away, exhaling loudly enough through his nose that Sherlock can tell he’s annoyed about the ears. Perfect.

Despite this opportunity. Sherlock doesn’t mount a campaign of obvious wanking to annoy John.   
It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He definitely wants to. His frequency is abnormally elevated--it’s all the time,over his hand or in the shower or even, once, in a public toilet--and it would be so much simpler to be obvious than to hide it the way he does.  
It’s just that after, no matter how well he puts himself back together, John looks at him: a downward glance, with a little tightening of the lips that says he knows. That look makes Sherlock turn soft inside; he knows it’s probably the prolactin, and he knows that it’s dangerous, but he craves it.  
Mycroft texts him once. “Featherstonehaugh, Sherlock.”  
His third-form chemistry instructor. Dirty pool, and Sherlock is tempted to text back “Paris-Brest” (Mycroft’s latest indiscretion), but he opts for disdainful silence instead. He drops a pair of come-stained pants on the floor of the loo that day, though. John kicks them out into the hall.  
“Do your own laundry,” he says, before shutting the door.  
Sherlock’s second orgasm of the day is much less satisfying. He goes back to coming on his belly, holding his breath, and John’s evasive glances return.

Four days later, Sherlock realizes the only way to solve the crime that Lestrade has brought them is to hide out in a studio flat. In a tiny Victorian attic. Overnight.  
The work comes first, he tells himself. The work will protect him. He takes the unprecedented step of going to his most recent bolthole to wank, slowly and deliciously, bringing himself to the edge several times before he spills with a low groan of satisfaction.   
John still gives him the look when he gets home. Sherlock packs his most constricting pants. 

The adrenaline of sneaking along a series of rickety West London roofs in the twilight is a welcome distraction. Less welcome is the realization that the space they have is extremely limited. Sherlock can barely stand up straight, and they have a very few square feet to circulate. The toilet--hastily constructed, curse the developers of the nineteen-eighties--has no door.   
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. Mind over matter. Transport. He can do it.   
John sheds his coat and the scent of his warm body fills the tiny space. Sherlock feels blood vessels start to dilate and turns to his surveillance equipment.   
John stretches and yawns. A gust of warm air hits the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock breathes through his nose and visualizes his blood vessels getting smaller.   
“See anything?” John says, crowding beside him.  
The pressure of John’s thigh on his tells Sherlock that he has rarely been more wrong about his capabilities. He should have trained himself to resist his urges instead of indulging them, and now it’s too late. He’s hard, John’s wedged up against him, and there’s no place to wank without being seen. The constricting pants are just uncomfortable, and his Belstaff is inconveniently warm.  
“Want me to take your coat?” John asks, and the coincidence makes Sherlock start.   
“I’m fine. Transport.”  
The next half-hour crawls. Sherlock remains glued to the surveillance equipment, hot, hard, and nervous. John sits next to him in that curious stillness that Sherlock associates with him being a soldier:waiting for action, but completely calm.  
It’s incredibly arousing. Sherlock keeps shifting--every twenty seconds, or so, by his count. If only the criminals in the neighbouring closet…er, apartment, would do something.   
Another ten minutes goes by. Sherlock squirms in his seat thirty-two times.   
“Jesus, Sherlock!” John hisses. “Can you not sit still?”  
“Apparently not.” Sherlock stands. “Just keep your eye on the room.” If he can at least readjust himself by pretending to go to the loo, he might be able to wait it out. He’s not sure what the longest non-chemical erection on record is, but surely he has the mental fortitude to tough it out.   
“Fine. And close the lid when you’re finished.” John says.  
Sherlock doesn’t answer. His hand is already on his cock, and the pressure, even through his trousers, is such a relief he grits his teeth to stay quiet.   
He does it again. God, he’s so close. He’ll never be able to piss like this, but he unzips his flies anyway. Then he realizes that he’s worked himself into a corner. If he zips back up without pissing, John will be suspicious. If he pulls his cock out, the band of his pants will press right under his ballocks, and he will be even closer to coming, and John will be very suspicious. He rubs his cock again, through his pants, and breathes slowly through his nose. The flat is still very silent.   
Then.  
“Turn around,” John says.  
Sherlock’s breath catches. He knew this was within the realm of the possible but has refused to consider it--a dangerous omission. He measures the cadences of John’s voice in his head and knows John is neither angry nor repulsed. He recalibrates what he knows about John’s sexuality.   
“Sherlock,” John says. His voice is still quiet, but more insistent. Sherlock knows his time is running out. He looks down, even though he knows what kind of state he’s in. His trousers are open, and there’s a wet spot on his pants. Turning now means never going back.   
“I’ve thought about this a lot, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock turns around.   
John has abandoned the surveillance and is looking at him intently. Sherlock draws a shaky breath.   
“Go ahead. I want to see you, if you’ll show me.” The last phrase trembles on John’s lips and Sherlock feels the vibrations all through his body. He nods.  
“Sit, if you’re more comfortable.”  
Sherlock lets his coat slide off and sits, grimacing as his erection is crowded close to his body by the movement. He stands again, feeling suddenly awkward, and works his trousers to his hips, then sits. John swallows audibly.   
It’s like a match to a pile of tinder. Sherlock pulls his cock out. His hand shakes slightly, but he pushes into it anyway, then draws back. There’s a slick drop on the end, and he uses it to wet the head.   
Positioning the band of his pants the way he likes, he begins. John’s eyes follow each movement, though they flick up to his face as well. It’s like an extra stroke, a counterpoint to his own skill.   
Sherlock’s eyes dart to the vee of John’s jeans when John shifts his own body. There’s a clear outline, even under denim, of a solid erection, and it becomes clearer as John rolls his hips. Sherlock gasps.  
“Can I..”   
Sherlock nods before the words are out. John rises, crosses the room in two steps, and kneels.  
“I won’t touch. I just want to see,” he says. The “for now” hangs in the air.   
Sherlock slows his stroke. He loosens his hand so that it won’t be over too soon. John’s hands grip his own thighs.   
“Please, Sherlock,” John says, licking his lips. The tip of his tongue is Sherlock’s undoing, and his body convulses, spilling hot semen on the floor and--oh--on John’s hands.   
For a few moments, their harsh breathing is the only sound in the attic. Then Sherlock looks at John’s splattered hands.   
“Does that count as a shared household item? I’d hate to break any standard rules.”  
John corpses immediately.   
“Arsehole,” he says affectionately--affectionately! Sherlock’s well-being increases beyond even exceptional endorphin levels--“They practically are, since I do all the bloody work in the flat.”  
Then he licks one of his glistening fingers, and grins. Sherlock watches every movement of his face: the mobile lips, the raised eyebrow, the blown pupils...wait.  
“Your pupils. Your pupils. I should have known.”  
“My pupils.”  
“You always looked down. I couldn’t see them--they would dilate, of course.”  
John leans forward and kisses Sherlock’s lower lip, bites it a little. He tastes like semen and bacon butties and John.  
“And you still don’t know everything,” John murmurs against his mouth, smugly for someone whose erection is still insistent.   
“Don’t I?” Sherlock asks, dreamily. He can still feel the last blast of oxytocin, and is inclined to mildness.  
“Featherstonehaugh.” John says. Sherlock starts wildly.   
“What do you mean, Featherstonehaugh?” He scrabbles for his phone.   
“In the army. The first man I, uh, saw.”  
Everything clicks into place. Bloody Mycroft.  
“You can tell me about it another time,” Sherlock says, pushing Mycroft to the back of his mind and reaching for John’s zip.


End file.
